


I Could Not See To See

by LoneChestnutTree



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Floriography, Inspired by Poetry, Language of Flowers, M/M, Major Character Injury, Poetry, Sad Ending, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 22:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19159816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoneChestnutTree/pseuds/LoneChestnutTree
Summary: “There interposed a fly,With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz,Between the light and me;And then the windows failed, and thenI could not see to see.”—I Heard A Fly Buzz When I Died, Emily Dickinson.In which, Leon falls for Chris.(Cedar leaf - Think of MeAnemone flowers – Fading Hope)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote a little poem randomly that made me think of Chreon which inspired me to write a scene about it. Hope y'all like it! ♡

 

* * *

When the sun  
slips behind a cloud  
And the earth  
summons my body,  
I return.

May my last breath stutter  
Past the trees,  
Past the mist,  
to you.

Think of me.

Not as a stranger  
Whom I have let myself become  
but as a yellow bird  
Who pecked at its desires,  
Who died not wondering.

Think of me then,  
As something,  
as anything,  
Just then would I approach  
true silence

Finally letting the fog pass  
Where my soul once was.


	2. Dynasty of The Dying

The damp air clings to his clothes, his hair, and his unfeeling skin. His arms are the weight of the clouds and his head is an ocean’s current.

  
Every time he breathes, he feels that much closer to passing out. It was as if blunt nails are scraping his insides. His neck is on fire, and each time he turns, the searing pain in his spine almost knocks him breathless. He rests a hand on his side, clutching at a blooming pain on his waist that he’s starting to feel aware of each time he moves his left leg.

  
The blue, calming, sky from this morning now roared orange, stretched above him with pinks and violets; Leon cannot possibly process how long he’s been laying here.

  
_If he would’ve known, he thinks back—if he would’ve known that today was going to be the day, he wouldn’t have followed Chris to the cusp of his life. (Or maybe he would’ve followed him more fiercely.)_

  
Because on a steep valley, a good 10ft drop, he laid.

  
His harsh leathers, an eyesore next to the sprightly anemone flowers around him. Denim blues and midnight blacks, darkened voids clashing against the soft petal flowers the color of newly polished coins.

  
The patchwork of foliage blocks his full view of the sky, he lifts a palm toward it and squints at it as if it wasn’t his.

Sunlight passes his face in patches, not at all helping to reign in the pain, but the warmth it brings is a welcomed feeling.

The looming, cedar, trees intimidate him, the flowers accommodate him, as if they only ever started to grow when he was here.

  
Leon’s hand leaves his side, placing it firmly on the ground before attempting to lift himself up. The cool earth against his palm crumbles as he lifts his body and centers himself with a shaky arm, he breathes out, silently convincing himself that the pain in his neck got rid of itself and he’s now fine enough to sit straight again.

  
Slowly, he brings his head forward, testing to see how his neck and back will respond. Just then, a sharp, shocking, pain in his back dizzies him, almost blacks him out, he did not have time to scream before he’s already falling back on the flower field with a thump that made pollen and loose, gray, petals rise in the air.

  
“Shit,” he exhales to himself, face twisted in pain.

  
The tree foliage’s shake and swirls the petals around him. The humidity settles itself heavy on his eyelids. His shoes scraping against the forest floor, wind rustling the trees, a yellow bird’s singular call overhead, and Leon, in this lethargic state, finds that he does not mind the sounds at all.

  
His chest rises and falls as his eyes start to close without him knowing.

* * *

  
He sees a tall building. People—men and women pass him on the streets, whispering to each other. The building is a mirror. Window washers gliding their brushes on the surface with red paint, he shouts at them but his voices echoes back to him. Someone rests a hand on his elbow, “It’s too far.” The voice says.

They turn around toward a railroad that intersects two different ways. He picks up a glass jar on the grassy ground and looks at it before crushing it in his hand, turning it into dust.

  
The dust swirls and floats away. Turning into clouds.

* * *

  
His breathing turns lighter as he resurfaces from unwanted sleep. The neckline of his jacket is lined with sweat, as his legs feel numb, static shooting through him every time he attempts to move. He opens his eyes wildly, darting out around him, confusion setting in. The sun was still out when he fell cold, and now—everything, from the lush, green, cedars to the greener field he laid on, blankets a pale shade of blue. And up above, fog has gathered on the lower foliage of the trees, already obvious that it won’t be long until it settles to where he was now.

  
Leon exhales, more for his nerves than for his breathing. Now, more than ever, did he want to re-establish control of this situation. He’s a sitting duck out here, the horde of zombies that led him here could pass again and all it takes is for their undead eyes to look down from the upper forest and see him here. The more time he remains stagnant, the more chances of that happening. He has to get up now.

  
_Besides, he has—he has so much to come home to._

  
His arm attempts to steady himself again, as shaky as it was before, and this time he uses his other hand to make sure it doesn’t give out, his legs flex as he screws his eyes shut when the static pain floods his insides again. He tells himself to breathe above it, to familiarize himself with what to do despite his thoughts being shot. Feeding him with plans that involve safety ropes and early medical attention. Or even righteous, all-American, heroes that seem to appear in moments of hopelessness.

  
Now—he doesn’t even have a damn gun. He charged ahead, himself be damned. And damned really is what he was turning out to be.

  
He looks up in the darkness, at the fog that refuses to clear above him, before his back slowly hunches, the now chilly air immediately cooling him, he breathes through his nose before moving his head forward like before, preparing himself to feel the electrifying pain that he felt earlier, and surprisingly, nothing comes of it. Leon chuckles once before attempting to move his legs now that he’s successfully managed to sit-up.

  
His left knee’s joint pops as he tries to dig his foot on the ground for leverage to finally get himself to stand, the pain is still there but Leon grits his teeth and gets both of his legs to steady himself. His hand that was still flat on the ground pushes his weight little-by-little up until the only thing left to do was to unbend his knees. And in just seconds, he was now fully standing.

  
And from there, the height of his fall seemed higher as he tries to crane his neck toward the upper forest from which he fell from.

  
He lifts his right leg slowly, taking down the flowers in front of him, before— _in just a breath and a half_ —nausea washes over him so suddenly. Vile coats his throat as his back cracks and echoes in the sullen forest. Eyes wide and lips parted in a silent scream as he falls back again, feeling his lower back come in contact with the ground as his already painful head bounces on impact.

  
His mind re-lays what happened, as seemingly, one second he’s about to walk, and in the next, he’s back to where he was before. Not only that but, whatever pain he felt then was nothing compared to now.

  
His neck is crumbled concrete. His back is lead and lava. His legs felt as if it was buried deep in the earth. His head swims with black on the edges as he fought not to pass-out again.

  
A stray tear slips from his eyes, as he laid back and watched the fog saunter towards him.

  
Leon sweeps his hair to the back as he began to breathe deeply from his nose and out his mouth; he adjusts himself to keep the twisted flower stems from digging on the back of his thighs. The fog is constant, as all he could do was reach out, trail a hand through it, and watch as it passes each individual finger languidly.

  
His hand drops back on the ground as he turns his head to the side and stare off into the distance. From there, rows and rows of wild anemone flowers covered the entire clearing, looking at home in the wild.

  
And—and he thinks that chaos is not always loud. Isn’t always the hail of bullets or the disorienting ring after an explosion. Sometimes chaos shows itself when the mind begins to settle, when the air is still. When the only thing his ears can hear is the sound of his thoughts finally processing what could happen next.

  
He feels grounded. The cool, loose, earth sticking to his skin, as the bitter beginning of dehydration starts to dry out his tongue.

  
His mind swims, and jumps from memory to memory, thinking about everything and nothing at all. A flat, foamed, hospital bed, heavy boots against soil, the buzz of a fluorescent light overhead, and the crackling of asphalt. His parents’ car parked on the front of his childhood home.

  
And the seven petal flowers the color of thundering skies.  
_(His mother loved lilacs. His father wouldn’t know, he wasn’t always at home. He should send them a bouquet when he gets back.)_

Solar, naïve, birds who would not let him be.  
_(Did Chris manage to contain the virus they came here for? Was he at the waiting point right now, worrying for Leon, sending men out to search for him? Or is he getting impatient? Is he fuming, yelling at his crew to pack-up and leave Leon’s body here for the earth to reclaim?)_

Leon just hopes he wasn’t going to be much of a bother to this soil he’s found himself on. As much as he would want Chris to go against nature just for him, it would’ve been pointless at this point.

Besides, he’d rather it be him. Chris has organizations. Networks. People who needs him, people who were no longer going to be ‘just people’ if he leaves.

Maybe it was selfish of him to think so.

But then, what does he say he has that’s worth coming home to anyway, a desolate apartment? A bottomless career? _(Irony is backbreaking-ly cold.)_

Or maybe even a love that was spent suffering in silence. Of only sticking to what was familiar rather than trying to see if something happens? Calling it an injustice would not be enough. Calling it something that’s akin to poetic is only really poetic when it happens to other people. But here. Right now. He could tell it to the trees and wildflowers, to leave a piece of himself without pride, like a bloodletting.

What could still happen, to him, it is a fire that he has snuffed the time his back hit the forest floor for the second time. _(It was as if he’s only now learning the word longing.)_  
He just wonders why his time, or the end of it, is passing like a millstone down his throat. Which corner of Leon’s mind he still has unturned in order for him to finally be at peace?

Or maybe, terrifyingly, peace is too much to ask for.  
What could only be tangible is contentment.

He looks at the gray nothingness, flourishing above him like a sheet, not allowing him the view of the sky he never paid mind to. A breeze sweeps by, blasting him with chilly, impatient, air. The taste of moss lay heavy on his tongue. He does not mind at all.

A singular bird, the color of sand and marigold  
Lands near his arms, spirited,  
Happy to have watched over him.

He is now the dynasty of the dying. _The faraway sound of heavy, hurried, steps create a crescendo._ Leon clings to it, eyes far away, _listening as the thump comes closer._ It is outside of him now.  
_A bright ray of light passes the side of his face, warming him. Just then, his hearing dulls, tuning out the trees of the bereaved._

His chest rises and never falls as his eyes start to close without him knowing


End file.
